


you’re used to being told that you’re trouble

by kirfman



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, and harry works in a coffeeshop, louis is a writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 09:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19943977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirfman/pseuds/kirfman
Summary: au, where louis writes silly yet deep things on napkins, and thinks that he can’t just fell in love or to be loved





	you’re used to being told that you’re trouble

**Author's Note:**

> i really hope i didn’t fucked this one up, cause english isn’t my native language 
> 
> enjoy, if you can

Louis writes small confessions wherever he can: on yellow stickers on his fridge, on the wooden table in his mother's house, on his pale arms, knowing that the black ink will almost permanently stay on his skin. 

It’s Wednesday night and he has bags under his eyes, his hair is dirty and messy, and nobody really minds him being this fucked up. He rents a small apartment, which is as far from the bustling city centre as possible, and his new novel must be ready by Tuesday, but letters don’t seem to turn into words, and the latter into sentences, so Louis just scratches his head and sighs. The last cup of bitter coffee was finished a few minutes ago.  
He writes as much as he can remember. It all has started with fairy tales about princesses: school bullies teased him, and his mother said that boys shouldn’t write stories about princesses, but he likes princesses, so he just keeps doing it.  
Also Louis has been losing some sleep. He has nightmares, so he’s always kinda fucked up, he guesses. 

Anyway, he needs coffee as much as the air he breathes. Louis puts on an old black wife-beater, a torn suede jacket, and looking in the mirror he notices the same bags under his eyes, the tips of his hair are clotted, and a five-o'clock shadow isn’t quite as flattering. He looks like a hobo, to be honest.

The 24-hour coffee shop near his house smells of mint, coffee beans and caramel. Louis thinks he might fall asleep at any given minute. 

“Black coffee, no sugar, and a croissant, please”, he murmurs, and when he looks up and sees a waiter, it seems like a bomb has exploded inside his whole body. It’s like he got caught in a landslide high up in the mountains, and Louis can’t move because the boy in front of him has curly dark caramel-coloured hair and a cute cat brooch, and everything in him is so beautiful it just hurts. Louis notices a badge on his apron that says “Harry”, and the sound of that beautiful name makes him hurt even more. Meteorites burn and break into smithereens, touching the atmosphere, while planets want to dance with each other, when those blue and green eyes meet. 

Louis thinks he has to leave. Now. 

“Sure. I’ll be right back with your order”, Harry smiles, and Louis feels like a broken puzzle, that would never be solved.  
When Harry leaves, Louis takes his jacket off, grabs a pen and starts writing on those napkins about piranhas, eating away at him, about a beautiful prince who has dandelions and roses in his hair. 

“Your coffee and croissant”, Louis hears right up to his ear. 

His right arm says, “you’re only armed to the teeth because you’re more brittle than you’d care to admit.”  
“your love will always be rooted deeper that any grave” is written on his second arm. 

“Thank you”, Louis whispers. 

“Would you mind if I take you out tomorrow?”, Harry asks, staring at the ground and nervously playing with the brooch. They tell you that there’s nothing to fear but fear itself, but Louis has seen himself in the mirror. 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

“You’ll never love someone on purpose. Make up your fucking mind”, written on Louis’ palm just accurately describes the story of his life.


End file.
